Scars

There is a scar on my chin, although you can’t see it underneath my beard. It is a souvenir of a time when I was young and reckless. I got it falling off my bike headfirst as I carelessly zoomed down the steep hill where I lived as a kid. 25 stitches later, it left a jagged scar that although has faded over time, reminds me that sometimes you need to slow down and pay attention to the world around you.

I have two circular scars on the back of my right hand, which I told people was from a street hockey incident at summer camp. However, they are actually the result of having a series of warts burned off that mysteriously kept reappearing during my last year of junior high. For years, I didn’t have the self-confidence to admit to anyone what had truly caused the scars.

My other scar is not prominent. It’s a little white line near the fingernail of my index finger that I received while trying to cut through a super ball with a pocket knife, even though my dad had warned me not to. I had to spend the evening with him in the emergency room, enduring his silent but piercing “I told you so” stare. That scar is a reminder that my father is a wise man to whom I should pay attention.

My collection of scars is small. And while they don’t come with any truly great stories, each permanent mark on my body serves as a reminder of who I was and what I’ve learned along the way.

Scars can reveal a lot about a person. So what scars do you have and what stories do they tell about you?